


Restoration and Reclamation

by Trudemaethien



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Brothers, CC-2224|Cody Gets A Hug, Depression, Don’t worry his brothers feed him, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Executive Dysfunction, F/M, Former Military, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Mention of war and battles, Planet Concord Dawn (Star Wars), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Salvage Restoration, Slightly disordered eating habits, Star Wars AU - Soft Wars, Very oblique reference to wartime loss of life, not graphic, workshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29612025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trudemaethien/pseuds/Trudemaethien
Summary: Because even the greatest among them may struggle.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Colt/Shaak Ti
Comments: 7
Kudos: 64





	Restoration and Reclamation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fear the Wise Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23558722) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 



> aay’han- bittersweet perfect moment of mourning and joy; remembering and celebrating

Cody putters around his workshop, running his hands over this and that. This place is not like what he built in his quarters on the Negotiator. There, he’d had tight limitations, lots of stress, not much time. What time he did have, he’d filled with the next task. Orders, from others and from himself, were not hard to come by. The deadlines had alway approached relentlessly and he had been highly motivated and driven to meet them. 

He had also had access to a wide variety of scrap from worlds across the galaxy, but not much choice in which one he went to. He thinks the memories of where he got each item make them more aay’han. Not just that they are broken things, restored, but that each has a significant pain and reciprocal healing attached. Things like _torn leatheris from Ryloth after the 41st were lost, becoming part of a comfortable low seat for two_ are important to reclaim. 

This, how they’re living now, is so open-ended. The future unfurls. It is supposed to be hopeful and joyous, but sometimes, like today, it feels daunting and bleak. He is glad to have an unending list of things to do and never enough time to do it all, but no deadline is imposed upon him. They have all the time in the world, and it feels like a blessing and a curse. 

Here in his workshop he has every tool available to him. He can order any material. He can make whatever he wants. From scratch, even. He’s already picked through the scrap yards of CD, which were somewhat underwhelming. He’s made some small things, end tables, other bits and bobs. Given them all away. 

He’s restless. His hands need...he doesn’t know. It’s his mandatory day off work. He managed to busy himself in his apartment most of the morning, before giving in to the dual urges of restlessness and listlessness that were driving him to do _something_ , but actually offering nothing in particular to do.

He settled on meandering the streets of cheery shops. He hadn’t needed anything from them, made no purchases beyond a protein shake to tide him over at midday. Nothing appealed. 

He knows he’s in a mood, one he refuses to inflict upon anyone else. He’s the leader, but he is not in the right frame of mind to lead. He feels mulish. His feet led him to the workshop by mid-afternoon. He’d hoped it might help. 

It isn’t helping. He needs... he doesn’t know. He needs to know what to do. He traces his nebulous restless urges down to their deepest origins and sees: Obi-Wan Kenobi. How frustrating; he does not _need_ his lover. Of course he _wants_ him, badly, but Obi-Wan was right to go. They both need this. 

Pain is necessary, Cody knows fundamentally. Damage is not inherently evil. He _knows_ this. He showcases it, with his creations. It is not all the same to him though, not when he is the item in question. He hates- dislikes it intensely. The memory of Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka bantering among themselves brings a smile to his face briefly, but he soon sinks back into melancholy. How does one reclaim oneself? There’s no guide to what restoration of a sentient should look like. 

“Wow, vod, your day off looks excellent; very relaxed, productive, and absolutely restful!” an irritating voice encroaches on his solitude. He leaves the doors behind him open for air flow. No one usually bothers him. Usually. 

Colt is not one of his usual pains-in-the-shebs. Cody cannot bring himself to care enough today to think about why Colt is here, why he’s being obnoxious about it. Colt can do what he wants, Cody won’t stop him. 

He doesn’t turn, shrugs, armor-style with a head-tilt instead of his shoulders. 

Colt prowls nonchalantly, cursorily inspecting the workshop he’s never visited before. Classic interrogation tactic. “What’s the matter, vod’alor? Bored?”

Cody mmmm’s, not disagreeing, then tacks on, “Lonely.” He doesn’t say for whom. It’s not in question. The company of his brothers does not suffice only when he wants his cyare. 

“Don’t know what to make,” he adds after a while, into the sympathetic silence. He gestures vaguely around his well-stocked shop. “Ran out of materials.”

“Ah,” says Colt, and that’s all he says. Cody is clearly logistically capable of getting materials if he needs them, so the loneliness is the odd fact out of that conversation and therefore it’s the actual obstacle. Colt’s got his riduur, they’ve never had to leave each other behind. Cody envies that. He misses flying around the galaxy with Obi-Wan. His place is here and he loves it. But he can love this and still miss that. He wonders if his brother can understand any of this or if he’s just humoring his angst. No more words come to him to help him explain. What he’s said already is going to have to be enough to satisfy the question. 

Colt stays a while longer, contemplatively silent, before he heaves a great sigh, claps him on the shoulder, and departs. He probably says goodbye and Cody probably says it back. He isn’t paying attention. 

Cody fiddles with a metal component of an engine. It has moving parts, so he slides them around. The lubricant stains his fingers. He can’t make anything out of this. He feels like hurling it with all his strength. He doesn’t. 

The shadows are lengthening. His body is hungry, and he knows there’s nothing in his apartment to eat. Choosing food to buy, to cook, to eat, sounds exhausting and Cody doesn’t even know what he’s hungry for specifically. He could order food, but the obstacle of choice looms again. Everything is busy and colorful and there’s no clear path, no objective on the other side. He is too tired to choose one. If only he could just get the situation-briefing so he could move forward without having to think about it. 

His medics will yell at him if he doesn’t eat. They will hover concernedly if he chooses bland rations. It used to be so easy. Being free is worth the difficulty, he tries to remind himself. It’s too difficult to muster any sincerity for that concept today; even though he usually can. 

He runs his hands over his face, pressing hard, and sighs. He is just about to make himself turn and go, when something THUNKS onto the workbench next to his elbow. He doesn’t startle quite as violently as he once might have. His metal shop stool clatters away, overturned as he whirls. He does not incapacitate the intruder, his hands don’t grab or strike. He has been working with the mind healers on the violent startle reflexes. This impromptu test of his progress has fairly pleasing results, he notes. Could be better, though. 

It’s a container of food. It smells delicious. That’s secondary to the appeal of not having to pick it out.

His irritant is back. He doesn’t want to deal with Colt again. He doesn’t want to push him away either. He passes his hand over his eyes, rubbing his brow to dispel the adrenaline jolt. 

Colt has also brought reinforcement this time, the vod silhouetted by the light of sundown outside his workshop door. The secondary irritant is dragging something big on a hoversled. 

“We come bearing gifts!” the primary obnoxious brat crows. He lowers his voice to direct his accomplice, “Help me get this off.”

They unwind the canvas tarpaulin that shrouds whatever it is they’ve dragged to his doorstep. 

It’s a chunk of interstellar salvage, warped heavy-plated durasteel, frayed wiring and tensile-failed structuring exposed, edges torn by blaster fire. He is a bit intrigued, in spite of himself, and so he walks around the piece, inspecting its potential. 

He had seen the inner side first. The side he’s looking at now had been the outside. There’s distinctive ion scarring, and a stylized edge of a certain letter in a certain color that Cody recognizes. Most vod’e would. 

This is a piece of the Triumphant. 

His head is ringing and he mindlessly staggers in retreat from this past trauma. It’s Wolffe, he finally identifies the other vod, who steps up behind him, shoring him up with full-body support. 

Cody wasn’t at Abregado. He shouldn’t be more affected than Wolffe, who was. Neither of them are there now. 

This last thought manages to break through the shock and he suddenly feels like he can move forward again, both literally and metaphorically; like he has come from underwater and can breathe and see again. 

“That’s a dirty rotten smack in the face, springing that on a vod without warning,” he growls. 

Wolffe laughs. He *laughs,* the bastard. “You want it?”

“ _Yes,_ I want it, you oaf. Like a dead and mutilated rodent a tooka brings its owner, you ridiculous _animals_!” he tries to scruff his batch-brother. He and Wolffe scrap and tussle, insulting each other vociferously, though Wolffe is actually delighted and Cody is touched by their care. Colt stands by and beams at them both like he is planning on taking all the credit for this maneuver. He is, and he does, the smug brat. 

From then on, brothers show up every once in a while with rubbish, rejects, or interesting wreckage to show him. He doesn’t take it all, but every time a new vod comes jokingly calling, “dead rodent!” at his workshop door, he feels himself become just a little bit more reclaimed and restored.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to LesbianPraetor for helping me figure out the identity of the primary irritant.
> 
> My tenses are a mess, probably. Leave a comment!


End file.
